Accidents Happen
by Mistress Reigns
Summary: Roman goes into heat during the live episode of Monday Night Raw in London, England, during Seth's match with Batista. Things spiral quickly out of control when a rapid escape from Evolution sends the entire rest of the roster spiraling into their own biological cycles.
1. Chapter One

_**I'm Burning Up**_

In retrospect, maybe Roman should have used the soap.

It isn't like he's never walked through the locker room like this before. He's come out to the ring and wrestled just fine like this; most guys take one look at him and immediately back off even if he does call to them more than any of them want to admit. His size is intimidating, after all.

Not just his size, but his demeanor also scares many of his potential suitors away. The other superstars catch a smoke-eyed scowl and back off, muttering apologies or just turning away to suppress a shudder. Roman Reigns is primal, dark, and off-limits to everyone. He's made this as clear as he can since he joined the company and so even during this part of the quarter, he never worries about how the others are going to react to him. They've proven they have control.

But he's never been around Hunter for a prolonged period like this.

It registers just a second too late; Hunter's head has already swiveled in his direction and Dean is ripping off his headset. Seth ducks out of the ring, his face creased with tension as he takes Roman's arm and pulls at him. Hunter's interest has already set off Dave and Randy.

The trio of low, dark growls make Roman's knees weak in all the wrong ways.

He's stumbling away from the ring, backing away because turning his back would be bad.

Then the three break position and he turns to bolt with his friends at his sides.

* * *

Hunter received the warning earlier than Roman was in heat. He didn't think much of it.

Some of their bitches go into heat during the broadcast, and it's not really a big deal. The drinks at every arena are cleverly dosed with fast-acting suppressants that no one notices the taste of. It's a precaution that large public venues have been using for years. Get enough people dosed and you don't have to dose everyone. Everyone stays safe, happy, and clothed.

He's never had a problem dealing when one of their bitches go into heat. It's a normal thing.

Hell, he's usually one of the guys helping corral the guys who can't harness their control right.

Seth is close, which is why he and Randy are out here to begin with. Considering how long Dave was gone before he came back, Hunter doesn't trust him around the little high flier and he wants to make sure he can break up anything that might happen while they're in the ring.

After all, the best heels are the ones who can interfere when things go that shade of wrong.

But he's never smelled Roman before. Not surprising since the Shield was given their own locker room almost as soon as they joined the company. Hunter all but demanded it; three unmated, pretty bitches needed to be kept away from the rest of the locker room until they had time to adjust and the others had picked up on their scents well enough to not be a danger to any of them. Then, it had turned into pure selfishness. He doesn't want his precious stable anywhere near the rest of the locker room. It's neurotic and he's half-convinced Roman is going to snap him in half if he ever finds out that Hunter has been treating them like special snowflakes, but then he smells Roman and his thought process just stops functioning correctly.

Because Roman smells like everything good and sweet and lovely and Hunter _wants_ that.

His muscles tense and twitch as that scent permeates his nostrils and his brain, thick enough to dance along his taste buds and he can't imagine how good Roman will taste. Unable to restrain himself, he growls and feels burst of satisfaction when he sees Roman waver slightly.

Then Dean and Seth are moving him over to the barricade, ostensibly to escape. _Unacceptable._

Before he can move, he catches Randy darting forward out of the corner of his eye and Dave is heading for the ropes to head them both off. _No._ If these stupid fucks think they are getting anywhere near Roman, Hunter's just going to have to make it impossible for them to walk.

He pounces Randy first and takes him down in a swift movement, nailing him to the floor.

Randy doesn't go down without a fight. He thrashes for freedom but Hunter isn't having it. He locks a sleeper on the younger man, not some pretty looking fake one but a legitimate one until Randy goes limp beneath him. The Shield are already halfway up the steps, Dean and Seth struggling with Roman, and Dave is climbing over the barricade. As if. It's not happening. Hunter rounds the ring and jumps, landing on the big man's back and taking him down to the concrete floor of the audience. People scream. Someone cheers. No one seems to get it, though.

He looks up and the three black-clad man are gone. _Shit._ Where are they taking Roman to?

Hard weight lands on his back, sandwiching him down against the floor, and he twists his head to see Randy rolling off of him with a groan. Yeah, jumping on people isn't typically a good idea and Randy of all people should know that. Dazed blue eyes meet Hunter's, as if the younger man is surprised the move stunned him as much as it did. Good. He's not going anywhere.

"If you go near him, I swear to Christ I will rip out your fucking _throat_," Hunter snaps, lunging and clutching the front of Randy's black Evolution shirt hard enough to rip through the fabric.

Ever the fighter, Randy snarls in his face. "Fuck you, Hunter. He's _mine._"

"I _mean_ it, Orton. He's mine and if you touch him—" Hunter wraps a hand around his throat and squeezes, putting on just about three pounds of pressure. "You won't live to see the sunrise."

"Do it. You don't have the balls." The words are barely distinguishable from the growls.

The thing is, Hunter does. Four pounds of pressure. "Roman is _mine_. Not yours."

Something in Randy's face changes slightly at the words and Hunter backs off, letting the younger man get his breath as he scans the crowd. Up the stairs, through the doors—he can follow Roman's sweet scent through the hallways. Unless the Shield plans on leaving the arena early, they'll probably be heading to wherever they've hidden their locker room tonight.

"_Seth_ is mine," Randy finally says, and Hunter backs off. "He lost it right after Roman did."

They stare at each other for a moment before nodding and bolting up the stairs, Hunter hot on Randy's heels as he lifts his head and scents the air. Not like they could've gotten far. The Hounds of Justice might be notoriously fast, but if Roman is still lagging and Seth is starting to, they can't be that far away. All they have to do is track them down and separate them. Randy can have Seth as far as Hunter is concerned; he knows Randy will treat the Architect right.

"They went this way," Randy says, turning sharply to the left and bolting down the hallway.

Someone must have said something to the others because the moment Hunter joins Randy and they round the corner, they smash directly into John Cena. The three of them hit the floor and roll, falling in a tangle of limbs that Hunter is quick to extricate himself from.

"What the fuck?" John asks from the floor, glaring up at them with narrowed eyes.

Randy doesn't even bother to apologize, just grabs the front of John's shirt and shakes him. "Did Seth and Roman come this way? Did you see them? If you saw them and you don't tell me, John, I swear to God I will destroy your career and make sure you never wrestle again."

"You're serious. Shit." John shoves Randy off of him, shudders all over. "Oh, fuck you both."

He's not going to be helpful now. Hunter sees it happen in an instant and just grabs Randy by the arm, dragging him off of Cena and back to his feet. He finds the scent with ease and starts down the halls again, running with Randy at his heels. The last thing he wants to do is baby sit John Cena now that he's unexpectedly hit rut... How many more of their guys are going to crumble?

"This way. They went this way," Hunter mutters more to himself than anyone else, stopping at a doorway. It's barely open, just a crack, but one sniff is enough to tell him Ambrose opened it.

And Ambrose is gone, too; Roman must be pretty dominant for a bitch if he's already set Seth and Dean off especially because Dean wasn't even _close_ whereas Seth was. Just like Hunter and Randy set John off. It's poetic, really. Hunter has finally found the one who carries his preferred type of dominance and just like in the old days, he's going to chase his mate down himself.

"They must've went down to the basement level," Randy says, shouldering the door open.

Hunter shoves past him and sniffs the handrail; he smells sweet Roman and two other scents he knows belong to Seth and Dean. "Yes, they did. Let's see if we can catch up to them."

"No," Randy says before Hunter can start down the stairs. "We need to head them off to the lot."

It takes Hunter a moment to process the words because he's starting to go gray around the edges but then it makes sense. He nods and they leave the door behind, heading down another hallway and almost knocking Heath Slater off of his feet in the process. What the fuck is this? It's like everyone is in there way tonight—even if it's only been two people. Heath yelps and stumbles, and Randy catches him and straightens him before they leave him behind and take off.

"Don't think I've seen you act like a gentleman in a long time," Hunter comments lowly.

Randy smirks up at him. "Heath's a pretty bitch. Wouldn't want to accidentally hurt him."

Good point. Hunter nods and makes a mental note not to knock over any of their resident bitches on this mission—it isn't proper and as the alpha of this ragtag pack, he needs to be a good leader.

They zigzag around a few people who work in the arena and nearly knock over the Wyatt Family in the process, Hunter hoping vainly that they just didn't set anyone else off when he knows very well they did. He doesn't want to think about it to be honest. Instead, he just shoves it out of his mind and makes a mental note to deal with the fallout tomorrow morning. Because this has to have spread and he can only imagine what the repercussions of this evening are going to be.

"I don't think we should have just left those three behind," Randy says as they turn a corner.

Hunter winces and nods; there's a reason Randy is his second-in-command and Dave isn't, after all. "I know. I think Harper's covered and I don't really want to think about Wyatt right now."

"Rowan isn't an issue?" Randy looks momentarily surprised, but he's been out of the loop.

"No," Hunter assures him. "He's not a problem. Never has been, never will be. Focus, Orton."

It's not easy to focus when they have to pass half of the other superstars on their way out of the building. In his head, Hunter is trying to decide how many of them are mated, how many of them will be able to control themselves, and how many of them are going to end up fucking tonight.

With so many young guys in the company, the numbers are not comforting at all. But if this happens again, they're going to be comforting and that is somehow even worse.

"Steph is going to kill us for this," he says when they finally reach the outside doors.

Randy just shoots him a wry smile before wrenching the door open hard enough to make the glass rattle, Hunter sprinting out into the cool night air before he has the chance. Right now, he feels jacked up and it helps because it honestly feels like he can scent the entire parking lot.

The Hounds of Justice didn't make it as far as they probably thought they would.

Seeing the three of them crumpled to the pavement sends Hunter's heart thrumming in his chest and he covers the distance in long, easy strides with Randy right behind him. He hasn't run like this in years and he's going to pay come morning but right now all that matters is Roman.

Hunter hits the pavement hard and he's pretty sure his knee is going to be bitching at him in the morning for it but he doesn't honestly care right now. "Roman, are you okay?"

Glassy gray eyes peer up at him from beneath long, liquid black lashes. "H-Hunter? What..?"

"Oh, fuck," Dean groans, curling into the fetal position, shivering all over.

_Shit._ They don't have anybody for Ambrose. Hunter swears quietly as he moves to a crouch so he can get an arm around Roman and another around Dean, hauling them both to their feet. Roman might as well be dead weight and he's a _lot_ of dead weight but it's fine. Hunter can manage. He watches Randy scoop Seth up like he weighs nothing, tucking platinum and dark, dark brown out of Seth's dazed, flushed, sweaty face. These boys are so far gone.

Dean is suddenly punching his arm, trying for his attention. "My phone. Call Regal. _Now._"

"He's in Florida, Ambrose. He's not going to be able to help you." But Hunter is already patting down Dean's pockets until he feels the shape of a phone and yanks it free from his pocket.

"He's not in fucking Florida," Dean mutters, shaking his head. "He's at the hotel. Waiting."

It shouldn't surprise Hunter that William Regal has managed to duck his responsibilities in NXT to join them in London, but he is a little pissed the guy just didn't come right out and ask him if he could come. It could've been arranged. Sighing, Hunter shoves the phone in Dean's face until he gets the hint and unlocks it, then yanks it back so he can locate Regal's number on the list and hit the Call button. It takes a few rings before he hears that arrogant British accent on the other end and a million ways to explain this situation roll through his head, none of them at all coherent because Roman is right here, nuzzling against his neck and making breathy, pleading noises that make Hunter think of nothing but spreading those big, beautiful, naked thighs—

_"Dean, are you okay? I saw you and the others bolt. Talk to me."_ Shit. He's on the phone.

"Dean's fine," he barks, not caring if he sounds pissed or not. "We're bringing him to the hotel."

Which in hindsight is where all of them are going to end up in the grand scheme of things anyway; Hunter would much rather prefer to fuck Roman in a big soft bed rather than on the cold asphalt. And he's pretty sure Randy doesn't want to risk hurting Seth because the little high flier already took quite the beating. Hunter's going to have to rethink his opinion of the kid.

There's a brief pause but Hunter can sense the anger even through the phone. _"Helmsley, if you harm so much as a single hair on his head, I will have your head on a silver platter."_

"We're just bringing him to the hotel. Be in the lobby." And then he hangs up.

Roman's hands are starting to roam and the little breathy noises are right in his ear; how is he going to drive in this condition? Not that Randy is fairing any better; hefting Seth up into his arms has given the younger man easy access to Randy's neck and Seth is taking advantage.

"I'll drive," Randy finally snaps, carrying Seth toward a car, and Hunter follows.

Dragging both Roman and Dean isn't an easy task but he's still strong and at least Roman is somewhat cooperating if only to stay close. He's going to be such a good lay, so submissive and open and passionate. Hunter's looking forward to every single second of that.

"How long have you been fucking Regal?" Hunter asks Dean to cut some of the sexual tension.

Dean sends him an incredulous look. "Ever since I kicked his ass when I was going by Moxley."

"Guy likes a strong bitch," Hunter muses, noting the flash in Dean's eyes. "Good for you."

He's seen the tape. Everyone has seen the tape. It was what made him decide to keep Dean away from NXT and bring him straight to the main roster; he was main event material _now_ and Hunter wasn't making him wait. It doesn't surprise him that Regal, somewhere in the middle of all of that, found time to pin Dean down and make him his. In a way it works because Regal is so cerebral and Dean likes that. It's what ended him up in the Shield, after all.

"If you drive the speed limit, I'll kill you," Hunter informs Randy as they reach the car.

Randy rolls his eyes, locating the spare key and unlocking the vehicle. "Fuck you, Hunter."

"You'd like to." Roman growls softly against his throat. "I didn't mean it, Roman. Christ."

Randy sets Seth in the passenger seat and takes the driver's seat while Hunter pushes Dean into the back before following him, Roman plastered against him a breath later. Fuck, this is _exactly_ where Roman ought to be. Crawling into his lap, rubbing against him like this—

"No sex in my car, Hunter," Randy growls as he twists the key in the ignition.

Seth and Roman both whine, and Hunter catches Randy's eye in the rearview and smirks. "Oh?"

"I mean it." Randy twists around, backing out of the spot so fast the tires screech. "Seriously."

"Fine. Spoilsport." Hunter tangles a hand in Roman's hair, needing the touch, the contact.

And it's like there's never been a speed limit because Randy kills almost fifteen people on the short drive to the hotel. Regal is waiting in the lobby like he's supposed to be; Hunter says a prayer for favors both great and small as Regal comes to collect his little Lunatic Fringe.

"Stephanie called me," Regal says curtly, and before Hunter can ask, Regal answers. "I called to confirm all five of you were out of the arena. All hell is breaking loose in your wake and I'll bet you don't know half of what's going on. John Cena is locked in a storage closet right now."

"Surprised the guy managed to get in there of his own volition," Hunter admits, impressed.

Regal gives him a withering look as he takes Dean in his arms. "He's in there with Bray Wyatt."

"Son of a fucking bitch," Randy grunts before hefting Seth over his shoulder and heading for the elevators. "Guess that storyline is about to be nine parts sexual tension from now on. Could've been worse. Think Harper tried to fight Cena off or did he just hand Wyatt over?"

"From what I understand, Harper was already off looking for Maddox," Regal says.

"Maddox is small. That was probably for the best anyway." Hunter ignores the pointed look Regal sends him and now that he can, he lifts Roman into his arms. "Excuse me, William."

Regal sighs and steps out of the way, lifting Dean himself. "Please fix this once you've had... What you want out of Roman. This is not going to go away. That place is falling apart."

Hunter shrugs as he approaches the elevators. "Not much I can do about it while I'm here."

"And you're not going back," Roman mumbles against his neck, tugging at his shirt.

Yeah, as if he wants to go back to an arena full of heat-and-rut-induced werewolves to sort out that shit when he has Roman damn near begging to be laid out and taken hard and fast.

"No," he agrees, stepping into an elevator a young couple steps out of and hitting the button for his floor. At least he keeps his keycard in his back pocket always. Just in case. "I'm staying."

"Fuck me." Roman's voice is breathy and strained, insistent and needy.

And it sounds like just the perfect way to pass the evening. "I plan on it. Every way I know."

"God, yes." Roman gets a handful of his shirt and rips it. "Every way. All night. Please."

Really, how is Hunter supposed to pass up on such a sweet request? It would be wrong to do anything but take Roman to bed and give him exactly what he wants, every way he wants it.

He digs the keycard out of his pocket when they reach his room and slide it through the little scanner, grinning when the handle turns and the door pops open. Time to get down to business.

* * *

_**A/N: I have a thing for the whole heat/rut business. As well as Hunter/Roman, Randy/Seth, and Ambregal. Which you'll get explicitness for those three later on in this story as well as, well... Lots of other people... Next chapter is John/Bray!**_


	2. Chapter Two

_**Explaining What Words Cannot Describe**_

John only ran after them because he was pretty sure they were going to break their necks.

And he wasn't about to let them die in an accidental way when all he wanted to do was break their necks for them. Sons of bitches are so high up on the dominance ladder that just being near them when they're in rut is a recipe for disaster, and it took seconds really for John's body to respond and hit that dreaded patch of rut as well. He's been careful to manage his since he started climbing that ladder himself, not wanting to trigger anyone accidentally and cause an awkward situation. But chasing Hunter and Randy down was all about knocking them on their asses for messing up his carefully laid plans and leaving him sweating, needing, and unwilling to do what it would take to fix the craving. He's not found his mate yet and is not willing to settle for some ring rats to entertain himself him in the meantime. He wants to wait.

And in the meantime, he wants to bust the only two guys higher on the ladder than him.

The entire hallway is permeated with scents he doesn't want to chase down, and somehow, he doesn't pick up on the one that damns him until it's far too late to stop. Until he trips and lands.

Trips over Bray Wyatt, that is. Who's sitting against the wall and smelling fucking _amazing._

It's not even fair how John didn't figure it out before he trips over Bray's foot and hits the floor.

He's pushing himself up, mumbling out an apology because he knows he's tripped over someone and he doesn't want to cause more trouble—and he's left staring at Bray. Bray, who's flushed and sweaty and smells far better than he ever has before. He's always smelled good, contrary to that bullshit JBL spouts during his "commentary," but John is bowled over within seconds.

"Where the fuck have you been all my life?" John demands, his voice coming out harsh.

Wide blue eyes settle on him and Bray looks genuinely startled and at a loss for those oh-so-pretty words he fires off into the microphone every night. "What did you just say?"

"You smell so good. Oh my God." John drags himself into Bray's personal space. "So good."

In retrospect, he didn't even think to look for the rest of the Wyatt Family but the fact none of them grab him and haul him away tells him neither of them are here. _Good._ And bad. He'll rip them both new ones for not watching over Bray and instead leaving him vulnerable. _Bastards._

"John..." Bray tries to back up but there's nowhere to go, and John leans back, studying him carefully, trying to pick up on if he's really against this or not. "You don't want to do this."

"Yes, I do. I think you do, too." But he still waits for the exhalation and tentative nod.

The storage closet is right there and not the optimum place for anything resembling sex, but John is low on patience and high on need, and he doesn't want anyone to see this but him anyway. So he yanks Bray to his feet and rips the door open, pretty sure he almost tears it off its hinges in the process. Bray goes in without a fight and John steps in, pulling the door shut and making sure it latches before crashing his lips against Bray's. _Fuck, yes._ This is what he needs, right here, and he's got it. He's waited and he's found it. Impossible but true. He hooks a hand around the back of Bray's neck to keep him still and tears at the eyesore of an over shirt, the room so dark he doesn't have to see the pattern of this one. It comes apart in ribbons and he counts that as a small victory before going for the shirt underneath that, the one that's always sleeveless and black. Warm bare skin, yes, that's what he wants and he doesn't hesitate to touch because it's _his._

Bray's his and he's going to make that very, very clear in the next few minutes.

"_John._" Fuck, that's new. He's never heard Bray so breathless and eager before. It's amazing.

And he's not fucking sharing with _anyone;_ he'll kill the first person who even _thinks_ it.

"'m right here." He kisses Bray again, savoring the taste of the other man's lips and pushing him back up and against the wall. Thank fucking God there's only a two inch difference in height.

Not that he's not above pushing Bray down onto the floor because the closet is at least big enough for that, but he's not there yet and it's nice to have control while on his feet, too.

Bray grabs at him and John stops, biting his tongue. _Please don't wanna stop. _"Are you sure?"

What a sad and stupid question all at once. John answers without words because he doesn't need them and he isn't good with them anyway. Instead, he just fumbles in the darkness until he gets his hand curving to fit against Bray's jaw, holding him still and branding his lips with a kiss.

Still, he should probably say _something,_ shouldn't he? "I'm sure. I'm fucking sure."

Not at all pretty or elegant but it gets the rough job done as far as he's concerned.

"_Please._" Oh, now there's a pretty word he can get used to hearing. All the time. Every night.

And Bray's asked so nicely, how can he really say no? It'd be criminal. What kind of dominant would he be at all to say no? Plus, he's not about to leave Bray here so open and vulnerable.

He never even _knew_ Bray Wyatt could be open and vulnerable but now that he knows, he's hoarding this information and never sharing it with the rest of the world. They can fuck off.

"Mine," he grinds out, fingers curling in the waistband of Bray's pants and yanking at them.

"Yours," Bray whispers back and John almost catches on fire at the single word before kneeling.

He can't see but he sort of can up close—enough to get the pants unfastened and shoved down.

Then he bounces back up to his feet and kisses Bray again, unable to stay away from the addictive taste of the other man's mouth and knowing just how damned he is.

But that's just fine with him because he's found Bray. That's all he's ever wanted.

He's done this out of rut enough times to know what to do, hooking one of Bray's legs over his forearm to keep it lifted and spread him wide. It's a miracle the guy is as flexible as he is because the move would hurt someone less so and John likes having him off-balance and open at the same time. If he had a bed, he wouldn't resort to doing it up against a wall, not the first time, but desperate times, desperate measures. At least he can make it feel amazing like this.

"Mine," he whispers again, just for emphasis because he's crystal clear right now.

Bray's already so fucking slick that he gets two fingers in without a problem and that kind of knocks him loose again, his breath coming harder and faster while he works hot, wet skin. Oh God, he's going to die. This is going to kill him and what a way to go out.

"Fuck, John." Bray's voice, low and husky in his ear. Yeah, he's dying right now. "More."

_More._ He can do more. Tangles his lips with Bray's again and works him open with three fingers because wet or not, he's tight and John doesn't want to hurt him. Pain is not on the itinerary.

It's a slow dance but John has the time to spare and the little sighs and gasps he gets in return are so perfect that it's worth it. If he can make it half as good the second time around, and the third, and the fourth, then they're going to have a great sex life. But it's not just about the sex. _This_ isn't about the sex. This is about marking the person who belongs to him and _with_ him for all of eternity so that anyone who so much as gets close realizes they are far too close.

Bray Wyatt belongs to him now and the first person to contest it is the first one to die.

Slowly, painfully, thoroughly. John is not going to let a single person step between them now.

He's sure he's done what he can and braces his hand against the wall to keep Bray still, yanking at his own shorts until they slide down and he kicks them away. Achingly hard, so fucking ready to be buried deep inside of Bray and listening to the younger man's breath tripping and stumbling even as he reaches out blindly and manages to find John's shoulders.

"You ready?" John asks, determined to wait until Bray gives him the signal. He _will_ wait.

More unsteady breathing before, low and soft and almost inaudible, "Yes."

John sucks in a breath because he doesn't have to wait anymore. Instead, he shifts forward, slotting his hips between Bray's legs and this is where he _belongs._ He can feel it deep in his veins, damn near singing with how right this is, and then he doesn't give pushing in a thought.

He's pretty sure he dies and resurrects somewhere in the process because it's just that perfect.

His own idiocy of not realizing he's been working in the ring with the man meant to be his clubs him over the head and he swears to make it up to Bray with everything he has in him. He's going to make up for every lost minute they should have been together. Make up for it tenfold.

It takes him a minute to legitimately catch his breath because he's so blown by this entire experience but Bray says nothing, just drops his head onto John's shoulder and shudders. Does he feel the rightness of this? He _has_ to. John twists his head around, seeking out Bray's lips with his as he pulls back just to slam forward again, burying himself to the hilt. Bray moans into his mouth and John swallows the sound, savoring the sweet taste of it on his tongue.

He keeps one arm firmly under Bray's knee, keeping him open, but wraps the other around him and holds him close without pulling him entirely off of the wall. Just because he can.

It doesn't take long for him to find the rhythm he wants, rocking deeper with every thrust.

And he's rewarded with the low moans and whimpers in his ear, against his mouth. It's perfect.

But he doesn't really like standing up for long and finds himself pulling out, manhandling Bray down to the floor onto his back because hands-and-knees is just fucking barbaric. And John can't rightly kiss him in that position. He spreads Bray wide, fills him again, revels in the tight heat.

"Oh, God, John," Bray rasps, and John just grunts softly in acknowledgement.

He doesn't really have the concentration or the ability to form coherent words any longer.

Instead, he's entirely focused on the movements of his body, finding Bray's wrists in the darkness and pinning them to the concrete, blanketing Bray's body with his own, kissing him...

He's so sweet, so fucking open and John is dying all over again as he buries himself deeper.

Something in the darkness around them falls over and he doesn't even care what it was.

He can't even see and yet his focus is narrowed down to the panting, writhing mess beneath him.

And it's going to stay there if he has absolutely anything to say about it.

The he leans down, bracing his weight back on his knees instead of his hands because he doesn't want to crush Bray's wrists, fusing their mouths together once again to taste those sounds.

He particularly loves the flavor of his name as he licks it out of Bray's mouth.

Everything narrows down to just this—the slap of bare skin against bare skin, Bray's desperate sounds and his own low grunts and growls, the overwhelming scent of a bitch lost in heat and John loses himself. He just gives into the animal deep inside and stakes his claim as he plants another bruising kiss on Bray's lips, wrapping a hand around his throbbing cock.

He's hot and hard and John is going to tie him down and make sure to get a good taste of him when they have time. But right now, he just wants to wring his name from Bray's lips one more time before he loses control and this magical moment comes to a close.

Because he's enjoying himself but it hasn't come to fruition yet. The one moment when it will truly be perfect is when Bray falls apart beneath him and around him for the first time.

He wishes he could see it but hearing it and feeling it are just as good right now.

His hips are moving of their own accord, rapid and sharp snaps that drive him ever deeper and rip moans and soft cries from Bray's lips. Not that he would slow down even if he had control. Hearing Bray enjoying this so much is adamant proof he's doing something right and when he angles his hips, dragging over his spot on the way in and the way out, Bray screams for him.

The sound rockets straight to his core and one more thrust undoes both of them.

John snarls and throws his head back, the pleasure washing over him in a hot wave as his hips buck forward over and over, working Bray through his orgasm until neither of them can move. Then he slowly pulls out, all too aware of how sore he's going to be come morning, and flops down on the small bit of floor space they have. He swears this room was bigger five minutes ago, damn it, but then he stops complaining when he realizes he can cuddle Bray closer this way.

"You okay?" he asks because not asking would be wrong and he wants to make sure Bray is okay. If he's managed to hurt him, he's going to punch himself in the face. Somehow.

Bray makes a soft content noise and nuzzles into the side of his neck. "'m okay, John."

"Good." He lets Bray tuck his head under his chin, carding his fingers through all that long hair and winding it around his fingers. "Just... Let's rest and then we can go back to the hotel."

And once they're back at the hotel, he can make good on his vow to make up for that lost time.

* * *

_**A/N: If you just don't love John/Bray, I don't know why not. And for the reviewer who thinks I write John as a bottom and Bray as the top... This is proof that I do not write it that way. I would also like to take the chance to say that all of the follows, favorites, and reviews I have received on all of my WWE stories have made my day and given me more confidence than I've had in a long time. You are all phenomenal and I love you all. Also! Check out my profile when you get a chance for news about in-progress and upcoming stories, some of which will include NXT wrestlers (because we all secretly love Adrian Neville and want to get in the pants of at least one member of the Ascension)!**_


	3. Chapter Three

**_The Best Of Intentions_**

On Heyman's advice, Cesaro bolts for the ring. The audience has already been ushered out of there and the only people he has to worry about are workers. Are the cameras off now? Fuck.

He pulls himself up onto the apron and steps through the ropes, bracing his back against them so he's facing the ramp. Just in case someone gets the bright idea to sniff him out and try to follow him. If anyone comes out, he can just run for the stairs and hopefully find a room he can lock himself in before anyone tries anything on him. He's not really one for casual sex.

And he had been told this pack was a safe one to join. _Safe._ What a colossal joke.

His knees shake, so he gives up the ghost and lowers himself into a sitting position, dragging the sleeve of his jacket across his forehead. Of course, his face is hot and sweaty, a testament to just how far he's fallen in the short amount of time since literally everyone started either succumbing or standing by and watching it happen. It's a miracle he managed to get out of the locker room before Swagger caught him; too many times, they've danced that dance even though Cesaro has made it perfectly clear he doesn't want Swagger to lay a hand on him now or ever.

The guy is too alpha for his own good and he's in a pack that already has very clear dominants in charge. They're the only reason Cesaro has managed to stay away from Swagger for so long.

Of course, he's bound to have to fight Swagger off himself at some point.

And _some point_ is apparently today; he tenses all over when he sees the familiar big-bodied blond bastard step out onto the ramp, preparing for the inevitable confrontation they'll have.

It doesn't help that his body is hot and need is coursing through his veins like liquid fire, making it impossible to really focus on anything else. Unlike most bitches, he's kept himself from giving into temptation during heat because he's never really found someone he wants to stay with.

Swagger smirks; Cesaro can see it from the distance and dread filters through his mind.

He doesn't get a chance to worry for long. Two guys are suddenly on Swagger, knocking him down and keeping him there as feral growls rip from their throats. He's never seen them act like this so it takes a moment for Cesaro to realize these two guys are Curtis Axel and Ryback.

Curtis jogs up to the ring—covering his mouth and nose with his hand. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Cesaro murmurs, watching as Ryback approaches, covering his mouth and nose as well.

It can't be doing very much to guard them against the scent of his body, but Cesaro is oddly touched they would even try instead of just getting in the ring and coming after him. After taking a few deep breaths, he pushes himself to his feet, bracing his back against the ropes for support. No matter how finely honed his body is from hours of exercise, his muscles are weak and he's not sure he trusts himself to walk without something to hold onto. It makes him an easy target for any of the dominants still running around backstage, something he doesn't want to think about.

"I might just stay here until I feel a little better," he says, sliding back down to the mat.

Ryback looks like he wants to object—it's probably that inherent need to protect a bitch who can't defend himself, after all—but he stops at the last minute and starts backing away from the ring, grabbing Curtis's arm. "If that's what you want to do. We'll watch the ramp."

"How are you guys not..?" Cesaro has to stop and inhale; his vision is getting fuzzy and he isn't sure how much longer he's going to be able to last like this.

"Not jumping on you right now?" Curtis guesses, smiling wryly. "It takes an effort. We got it."

Beside him, Ryback nods in agreement. "We like you, Ces. We don't wanna just jump you."

_We like you._ What does that mean? Cesaro chances it and sniffs the air, grabbing the ropes tightly to keep himself from going anywhere as the overwhelming scent of not one but two dominants in rut washes over him. God, they smell good... Almost too good.

"Think it's time for us to get out of here," Curtis says, starting to turn and leave.

They'd probably leave if Cesaro let them and watch the ramp like they said they would—for all their faults, Curtis and Ryback are good guys who get the job done when they have to. But he can't help the strangled, desperate noise in the back of his throat or the way he wants them to just stay. No, not just stay. Stay and come closer. He's never wanted anyone close to him when he's in heat before, but having both of them closer to him is so necessary to his happiness right now and he can't think of another way to put it in words other than _mine. Please. Right now._

"Don't go," he finally says, scrabbling for self-control he can't even be convinced he wants right now because _oh my God I finally found him. Them._ "Please don't go. Please."

Curtis spins back around to face him, hand going back over his mouth so his words are sort of muffled, but it's such a goddamn sweet gesture just the same. "Ces, talk to us."

"I don't want you to go," Cesaro manages to force out, scrubbing a hand over his sweaty face.

"Then we won't," Ryback says curtly, and Curtis nods. "Now, tell us what you _do_ want."

"Well, preferably you two," Cesaro snaps, and both Ryback and Curtis send each other amused glances at the words. "Right now. In this ring. Because I'm so far beyond giving a fuck."

Ryback grabs the ropes, pulling himself up onto the apron. "That's good enough for me. Axel?"

Curtis pulls himself up onto the apron as well, looking conflicted as he slowly lowers his hand… And then a breath later Cesaro is on his back. "You fucking smell… Ryback, come smell him!"

"What? Why should I..?" Ryback lowers his hand as well, his eyes blown wide and Cesaro smirks in triumph while Curtis nuzzles the side of his neck and growls. "Fuck. Holy fuck."

Cesaro is jerked up onto his knees and Curtis stays glued to his front, Ryback's larger body blanketing his back as his jacket is yanked off, surrounding him in warmth. Gentle nuzzling gives way to teeth and he squeezes his eyes shut, reveling in the sensations of being bitten, being marked, by the two men he never expected to want to. How can they share the same manager and he's never known before now? How can he have been so blind? How could _they_ have missed it, too? But he shoves those questions away because they cease to matter. All that matters is skin on skin and he doesn't have enough of it because their wrestling gear covers up far, far too much.

"Off," he whispers, grabbing a handful of Curtis's trunks and giving them a firm tug.

"Sure thing, gorgeous." Curtis shoots him an incorrigible smile and shifts back, yanking his trunks down and throwing them off to the other side of the ring. Eagerly, Cesaro fumbles to do the same. "You gonna be able to get yours off on your own, big guy, or..?"

The sound of fabric tearing echoes through the room. "Got it. Fuck, look at him."

"Hard to look anywhere else if you ask me." Curtis pulls Cesaro back onto his knees.

He doesn't even feel exposed because a moment later, both men are pressed against him once again he and he can feel how painfully hard they are, how wet he is in reaction to it and he's drowning in kisses from both of them. How is this fair? How is this the least bit fucking fair?

There's no proper answer for that question because it isn't fair, and then Ryback's knee wedges between his legs, spreading him wider than he already is. Fuck, he needs them both so _bad._

"Are you gonna be wet enough for this? We didn't exactly think to bring lube down here with us." Ryback's hands catch his hips when he tries to gyrate between the two of them, holding him still and he whines pathetically at being denied any of the friction he wants so badly.

_Oh, shit._ Cesaro didn't think that far ahead. He struggles to process that through the haze over his mind, forcing himself back into crystal clarity. Mating with two guys at once is going to hurt, he's going to be stretched to the limit and achingly full, but it needs to be this way. He needs both of them at once so they can properly mark him as their own. So he nods and kisses Curtis roughly, letting the younger man push him back into Ryback so he's tightly sandwiched between them, crying out when he feels two thick fingers press inside of his nearly dripping entrance.

"How tight is he?" Curtis demands, breaking the kiss, biting down on the side of Cesaro's neck.

"Real tight. But real wet and real needy. He'll be fine," Ryback says, sounding so damn sure of himself. Then he twists his fingers a certain way and Cesaro keens, squirming at the sudden pressure on his spot, being stretched so far and so fast. He wants them both. _Now._

Curtis moves first, forcing his legs wider apart and pulling him forward until there's no space left between their bodies. Behind him, Ryback moves until he's suddenly braced against the big man's back, his legs twined tightly around Curtis's waist, suspending him quite a bit above the mat and leaving him entirely in their hands. Cesaro rests his head back on Ryback's shoulder and pulls Curtis closer again, kissing him hard and fast and wet, _needing_ to touch him, to feel him. The fingers inside of him sleep free and he whines at the loss, then moans loud and long into the other man's mouth as one of them—Curtis, he's sure—thrusts up into him. There's no pain, no resistance because he's so achingly wet and his body opens, wanting to be spread, to be full.

The kiss is broken again and he pouts at the loss of contact, fingers digging into Curtis's shoulder as the other man fills him completely. "Fuck, you're so wet. Ryback, you ready?"

"I'm always ready." The big man presses a whiskery kiss to the side of Cesaro's throat, oddly gentle, before shifting slightly, shifting closer. "Hold onto him as tight as you can because it's gonna hurt and you need to stay as still as possible so you don't hurt yourself worse."

Cesaro nods and tightens his grip on Curtis's shoulders, legs clenching tighter around his waist as the blunt head of a second cock nudges against him. He's just wet enough, just open enough that Ryback manages to get inside with a bit of maneuvering and by fucking God the _pain_ almost knocks him out, it's so sudden and he feels like he's splitting in half. Unable to do anything but holder tighter to Curtis, Cesaro squeezes his eyes shut and whines, his body quivering.

He doesn't dare move, doesn't dare risk increasing the pain and just tries to focus on the lips trailing kisses and bites along his shoulders and throat. His head falls to the side, offering them more, letting them mark him and spread their scent on him so anyone and everyone who smells him knows exactly who he belongs to. So anyone and everyone will see these marks and know there are men who would come to his aid if he needs them. The pain abates, albeit slowly, and it takes even longer for his breathing to regulate and settle into something he can work with.

"I'm ready," he breathes a moment later, relaxing between them, letting them hold him.

"Trust us to know what you need and how to touch you." Curtis whispers the words against his lips, tugging the lower one with his teeth. "We've got you, sweetheart. We're not letting go."

They find a rhythm together, starting out slow for his benefit and Cesaro silently thanks both of them as his body rocks with their in tandem motions. He's so full, stretched so wide and deep and he's never felt so possessed, so owned, so desired by two people in his entire life. But he knew the moment he smelled them that they were going to be the ones to do this, to take him like this and give him what he so desperately needs and wants. Ryback's hands shift forward, sliding under his thighs to keep him supported, changing the angle and he moans when that change makes every thrust deeper. Curtis brushes over his spot with nearly every thrust like this, teasing the nerves and lighting them on fire all in the same movement.

"You are so fucking beautiful like this," Ryback insists, and Cesaro flushes despite him, wriggling between them and drawing low groans out of them, making his blood catch fire.

He's burning between them, a bonfire of sensation and pleasure and need, letting them fulfill the needs he's never been able to put to words because no words can ever describe it.

Between the two of them is where he belongs, where he will always belong and he's just glad he has the two of them to call his own. The two of them to make him theirs. And when Curtis bites down on his neck, leaving a much deeper mark than before, he cries out and writhes against him.

Then Ryback bites the other side of his neck and he sobs, caught between the two of them in more than one way, his fingers digging deeper into Curtis's shoulders. The pace picks up until they're drilling inside of him, and he's so wet he can _hear_ the slide of them inside of him.

So close, but no one is touching him and he needs to be touched, needs the contact to get off, to feel both of them fill him. He whines and writhes more, struggling to voice what he wants and frustrated when all that comes out is a broken strain of Swiss-German. He's lost his English and he knows neither of them understand his mother tongue. Curtis chuckles against his neck, hand ghosting along his hip and Cesaro bucks desperately, wanting that hand around his cock.

"He's so sexy when he can't speak English anymore," Ryback muses, and Curtis finally wraps his fingers around Cesaro, jerking him in time with their thrusts. "Come for us, baby doll."

Cesaro doesn't even have a chance at holding it in and screams, body bucking furiously between them as his orgasm sweeps through him. It's all white and fire and his muscles clenching and twitching while the rest of the world narrows down to just the three of them. Just him and his boys. Just the rough thrusts still rocking his overly sensitive body as they fight their way to climax inside of him. He shudders at the spills of heat inside of him, their choked groans of his name that make his body involuntarily shudder. Then they slowly pull out of him, Curtis lowering his legs to the mat and Cesaro flushes at the mess that drips down his thighs.

Ryback slumps over on the mat first, folding his arms behind his head with a stupidly blissful smile on his face. Chuckling, Cesaro angles himself so he can fall next to the big man, resting his head on Ryback's chest and closing his eyes. Curtis is at his back a moment later, curling an arm around his waist and pressing a lazy kiss to his shoulder. They lie there like this, catching their breath, until someone clearing their throat makes them all glance up. Cesaro clicks his tongue at the sight of his manager standing on the apron, that disbelieving look on his face.

"What exactly do you have to say for yourself?" he asks, and it takes Cesaro an honest minute to realize the man is talking to him because his brain is so fogged out.

Then he processes it and smirks up at him. "Your client, Brock Lesnar, has _nothing_ on this."

* * *

**_A/N: So here we have the next chapter. Poor Cesaro; I do not envy the man who takes double anal penetration because it sounds vaguely painful. But the show must go on. I'm thinking in the next few chapters, we can find out where Wade has gotten himself off to, check in with Adam Rose, and then you guys can have some sweet, sweet Ambregal._**


	4. Chapter Four

_**Chapter Four**_

Anarchy. Pure fucking anarchy. There's no other way to describe the backstage area right now, and the smell of sweat, sex, and testosterone in the air are cloying at best. How in the hell he manages to work in this environment on a daily basis, Rob honestly has no idea.

He's just glad it's not him. Never has been, never will be, and so the bitches going into heat or the dominants going into rut will never be a problem for him. For whatever reason, maybe having to do with genetics or magic or something in-between, some pack members just never experience either and he's convinced, at this point, it truly is a blessing. Especially when he realizes just how far gone some of his fellow wrestlers really, truly are.

There's the fact he's half-convinced he just walked by a closet and—though he really has no idea because he certainly didn't want to open the door—he's pretty sure he heard John and Bray in there. Not really something he wants to spend much time thinking about (the _positions_). He knows Hunter and Randy left some time ago with the Shield and he just really hopes the younger guys are going to be okay because Rob knows how hard it can be for the younger bitches when it comes to the older dominants. Not that the three of them are the youngest… At least, he doesn't think they are but he has stopped caring about age for years so he might be wrong in that aspect.

Walking backstage is still perilous, though, because the bitches seem to enjoy giving chase and some of the dominants are just too large for that to be safe. He almost died when Ryback and Axel shoved past him a few minutes ago and he's very glad the cameras are off because he can only imagine who the two of them smelled to be running that fast. _That_ wouldn't be PG at all.

At least he has experience with this. Being in this company for so many years has taught him how to evade the troubles that often come with working in such a tight-knit pack. He's glad to be a member and Hunter is a damn good alpha when it comes right down to it, but sometimes it gets hectic. Having so many protective dominants is certainly a good thing, and bitches like Reigns are more than capable of defending the pack, but when all of those dominants clash?

It isn't pretty. Some of them need to be gone in Rob's opinion, and at least some of the others must agree because there's been some circumventing going on backstage in order to keep some of the bitches safe. At least the cruiserweight division is markedly smaller—it had been hell when it was large because having to defend so many smaller guys put a strain on pack dynamics. No still means no and the average dominant at least has the intelligence to ask permission first.

From what he understands, old ECW had the best policies of dealing with dominants who took it too far because the place was full of weapons and a bitch could lay hands on everything from steel chairs to baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire. Self-defense was much easier then because while _no_ might not get through someone's thick skull, a steel chair certainly would. Not to mention a barbed wire shot to the groin. That'd take down damn near anyone no matter the size.

He also gets rammed into a wall when Big E slams into him, his quick footing the only thing that keeps him from hitting the ground. "Hey, I don't care how horny you are. Watch where you—"

"Shit, Rob, are you okay?" Big E hauls him back to his feet. "I didn't even see you there."

"That's because you weren't looking. Who are you chasing after?" Because he might as well ask if the man is still in his right mind. Might make for some interesting conversation at any rate.

Big E looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable with the question but clears his throat and answers anyway. "Thought I smelled Barrett somewhere back here."

Rob _so_ didn't want to know but it's too late to not know because he didn't know he didn't _want_ to know until it was too late—and now he knows. In the back of his mind, he can almost hear his sanity screaming its last because he's just been forced to compute that the strong, domineering Wade "Bad News" Barrett is somewhere back here. In heat. Waiting for a dominant to come find him and—No. No, no, no. Not tonight. _I am getting too fucking old for this shit._ Time to go back to the hotel to wait until morning when, hopefully, this is over. At least they're supposed to be here tomorrow night to do _Main Event_ and _SmackDown._ Hogan's going to laugh his ass off.

"Are you looking for Barrett in particular or..?" Sue him, he's curious and he wants to know just a little bit more. But not a _lot_ more because he still needs to be able to sleep tonight and he can't do that if his mind absorbs so much outlandish material it just cracks into pieces.

"I am, actually, yeah. Just haven't been able to find him. It's, ah, pretty messed up back here." Which is an understatement if there ever has been one, but Rob can give the poor guy points for trying at least. "Can you just help me find him? I promise you don't have to watch or anything, but it'd be nice to just get a little bit of help so I can find him, nail this, and get on with it."

Well… Might as well, really. It's not like this is anything new for him. He sighs and even though he should just go back to the hotel to wait out the end of this shit storm, he nods and gestures for Big E to lead the way. His nose might be good, but he doesn't really pick up on the scents of heat and rut to the extremes that dominants and bitches do so he's not even going to pretend he can just sniff Barrett out. Big E should do the honors anyway since this is technically his bitch.

"Which one of you started this disaster?" he asks while they start down the hallways.

Big E glances at him curiously, then nods to himself; he probably just remembered that Rob doesn't know automatically. "Roman Reigns. Guess he was really close to his heat cycle or just started it or something because Evolution almost killed each other chasing the Shield down."

"And I missed that. I can't believe I missed that." Rob shakes his head and wonders if there's a way for him to get his hands on the footage. He has connections, so there probably is. "Hope they realize Ambrose is taken. Regal won't take kindly to anyone interfering with his bitch."

"I sincerely doubt Hunter and Randy were after Ambrose. Actually, I'm damn sure that Hunter was after Reigns. Can you just imagine the pups?" Big E wrinkles his nose and Rob has to chuckle; the things would be über dominant little disaster creators who got into everything.

They're nearly knocked over by Naomi of all people, and she just gives them a dismissive glance before stopping and actually looking at them. "Sorry, didn't see you there. Have you seen Jimmy? I haven't found him yet and I don't feel like getting into a huge fight tonight."

"Haven't seen him," Rob admits, and he wishes he had because the young married couple doesn't need this kind of drama right now. "But if you need help kicking any ass—not that I think you do—I'll be around for a little while longer and I'm willing to help."

"I'll find him on my own. Just don't get into trouble." She's off then, and he barely has the time to realize he should be offended at being so offhandedly dismissed when he has higher stature in the pack than she does before Big E is off again and Rob is forced to keep up with him.

Barrett better be close because he is _really_ too old to chase down bitches in heat like a kid.

Oh God, what are they even going to do if this goes down at the NXT arena? Or, shit, what if it goes on during _Takeover?_ There's no guarantee it won't if this is going down during _Raw,_ and Rob makes a very loud mental note to warn Hunter so they can hopefully be more prepared.

"He's close by. I can smell him," Big E says, and he sounds very, very excited about this.

Rob just thanks God they don't have to go much farther because he isn't cut out to chase down anyone like this and he plans to not do this in the future ever again. No, the big boys and girls can take care of themselves and he is not about to play babysitter to any of them ever again.

Unless Hunter tells him to, in which case he has to, so his resolve to let them all do their own thing is really just paper thin and he knows that quite well, thank you. _Fucking pack structure._

Barrett, as it turns out, has hidden himself away in one of those negative space alcoves where nothing ever seems to fit because the space doesn't accommodate anything bigger than people. And up this close, even Rob can smell him and he does smell desperate for release, for touch, for anything. Poor thing's probably hiding out here so no one will find him—which makes Rob wonder if it was a good idea to help Big E find him. Of course, now at least Barrett isn't alone.

He's about to ask if Barrett will be okay with Big E or if Rob needs to drag the headstrong dominant away when Barrett glances up at them, his eyes widening noticeably. Out of all of the bitches in their pack, Rob's a big boggled that Barrett is one of them even though he knows he should already know that. He's older, though, not as functional as he used to be and he's been making assumptions based on what the guys and ladies look like instead of what they are.

But he's not prepared for the thankful sound or the way Barrett launches himself at Big E, the other man catching him neatly despite the fact Barrett is a rather big guy. And he packs a lot of power just throwing his body around like that, but the moment Big E catches him, Barrett is an octopus, arms and legs wrapped tight around him while he nuzzles against Big E's face.

Logic dictates he just walk away since it's pretty obvious these two are happy to see each other—something he wouldn't have guessed considering their rivalry over the IC title and what he thought was genuine dislike—but he doesn't. Instead, he lingers for a moment and just kind of watches Big E lift Barrett a little higher up, hands on the bottoms of thighs left bare by the fact Barrett is wearing a t-shirt but wrestling trunks, not jeans. Eh, he can make it work okay.

"Thank fucking Christ. I've been avoiding the bloody roster for ages waiting for you to show up." Barrett makes a thankful noise, half-whine and half-growl, and Rob bites down on his tongue because he's damned sick of the younger people in the pack acting like idiots. "You took your sweet time getting here. I hope you enjoyed your goddamn stroll back here."

Big E growls, the sound more possessive than chastising, and Rob doesn't honestly believe Barrett can be chastised in the first place because it's Wade motherfucking Barrett, the guy who used to bare-knuckle box and who has a scar from a knife wound. He's not someone to fuck with or something who takes kindly to being fucked with. "I got back here. Rob, I'm good now."

"Might want to find some kind of room for a little bit of privacy," Rob suggests.

"My dressing room isn't far from here and it locks. No one can interrupt us and there's a couch in there." Barrett gestures down the hall, then looks back at Rob almost uncertainly for a moment. "Mind walking us down there? Not much like E can take anyone on with his hands full and I'm not about to fucking deal with some rut-addled idiot who doesn't understand I'm not available."

Rob nods. "Not a problem." He tags along behind them, not sure what the rest of the roster is doing and equally unsure he wants to know. Tonight is just too surreal and he just wants to get these two behind a closed door so he can go back to his hotel room and sleep the night away.

Luckily, Barrett's dressing room really is close and Rob opens the door for them, leaning in to flick on the light as well. Big E carries Barrett inside and dumps him roughly on the couch, and if Barrett's legs fall open _extremely_ suggestively, then Rob certainly doesn't see that at all.

"Thanks," Big E says, and he offers his hand, which Rob doesn't hesitate to shake even though it was just on Wade's bare thigh. "I owe you one for helping us out. Have a good night, man."

_That's not even fucking possible at this point._ "I'll try my best. Try not to strain any muscles."

Both Big E and Barrett chuckle, and then Big E closes the door and Rob backtracks so he can hit the locker room, throw on a t-shirt, and grab his bag so he can leave for the evening.

He needs to get away from here far and fast because it's steadily becoming pure chaos.

When he bypasses the Usos' locker room, he hears very distinct male moans with an undercurrent of female growls—apparently Naomi found Jimmy, then. Good on her. She's one of his favorite dominant women, and he's sure one day she'll be very high up on the food chain.

Another door offers a very heavy, Scottish accent and a Mexican one under it and just no. Nope, he's done. He's done his bit for tonight and at this point, his head is legitimately starting to hurt and he doesn't want to think about this anymore. Time to worry about getting back to his hotel room so he can get some decent sleep and think about tomorrow and the anarchy that will come.

The locker room is eerily empty, a sigh that everyone has ditched it in favor of somewhere else, and he's thankful for at least that as he finds his bag and digs out a t-shirt. Maybe it would be a good idea to change out of the singlet since he's going to the hotel, but he's too tired and he can change at the hotel. Besides, the sooner he gets out of here, the better. He loves his pack, he does, but this is the kind of drama a man of his age and experience is no longer cut out for. Instead, he should be back at the hotel and making sure to take notes on what he's seen thus far so he can tell Hunter about it in the morning—assuming Hunter isn't still fucking Reigns by then.

The fact he didn't see it coming is annoying. Of course Roman is with Hunter. Even if Hunter will never admit it, the alpha had his eyes on the eye-catching Samoan bitch the moment Roman joined the company and, by association, the pack. He's big, he's pretty, certainly sensual to look at and probably good in bed. And Hunter's going to lay claim to him if he hasn't already because the alpha wants that pretty bitch and as far as Rob knows, he now has him.

He sighs, tightens his ponytail, and shoulders his bag. Time to get the hell out of dodge.

* * *

**_A/N: A non-sex update. I'm going to vary it up a bit with these poor bastards who aren't getting any sex during this sex-a-thon. For those of you who like NXT, there's also going to be a Takeover edition of this, so watch out for that following the conclusion of this. Also, let me know what you guys think is going to happen next. Throw out some names and couples, see if any of our thoughts gel together or what._**


End file.
